the hypothetical wren

I went grocery shopping this evening at the Albertson’s up in Almost Rio Rancho, near the mall that still has a Foley’s in it. I don’t go to normal grocery stores very often, and this Albertson’s has felt cavernous and over-lit the few times I’ve been in it.

I was looking for the Anzac biscuits (I’m not sure why Albertson’s, of all places, sells them), when I cam across this rather impressive display of lard in the baking aisle. Nothing else in the aisle, or, possibly, in the entire store, commanded this sort of shelf space.

I felt sort of nervous taking a picture in the store. I kept expecting that the store manager or someone else in charge would come over and object. Lots of places prevent photography (I always think of the odd “no photography” sign on the door at Ta Lin, for example) inside, under the assumption that the photographer is trying to steal important trade secrets. I didn’t think that my “I wanted to commemorate this mighty aisle of lard” rationale would fly, if I were to be questioned…

Sometimes, I think I should post more about what I’ve been reading. This is one of those times. Perhaps it will become a regular feature.

Last week, I started reading Richard Rhodes’ biography of John James Audubon. I’ve been wanting to read it for a while, and it just came out in paperback (corresponding neatly with my first opportunity to read for fun in a while). It’s not as good as I had hoped. Rhodes is a good writer, and he goes a good job at making the marginalia inherent in any attempt at biography appealing, but the book overall needs more birds and fewer descriptions of the virile young Jean Jacques traipsing through the woods of the American frontier. Rhodes is also so enamored of Audubon that he pretty much shoots down anyone who opposes or disagrees with his subject. Alexander Wilson (my favorite early American ornithologist [1]), for example, comes across as a total dick in Rhodes’ account, since he didn’t feel like going out shooting with Audubon.

There are some very amusing things in this book, though. Audubon was very enamored of himself and his appearance. Later in his life, he described himself as a young man:

I was what in plain terms may be called extremely extravagant. I had no vices, it is true, neither had I any high aims. I was ever fond of shooting, fishing, and riding on horseback; the raising of fowls of every sort was one of my hobbies, and to reach the maximum of my desires in those different things filled every one of my thoughts. I was ridiculously fond of dress. To have seen me going shooting in black satin smallclothes, or breeches, with silk stockings, and the finest ruffled shirt Philadelphia could affors was, as I now realize, an absurd spectabcle, but it was one of my many foibles, and I shall not conceal it. I purchased the best horses in the country, and rose well, and felt proud of it…

I was extremely fond of music, dancing, and drawing…I was, like most young men, filled with the love of amusement, and not a ball, a skating-match, a house or riding party took place without me…I lived…on milk, fruits, and vegetables, with the addition of game and fish at times, but never had I swallowed a single glass of wine or spirits until the day of my wedding…All this time I was as fair and rosy as a girl, though as strong, indeed stronger than, most young men, and active as a buck.

Still, despite its drawbacks, this is a pretty interesting book. It has a lot of information on how scientific information was spread in the early republic, and shows how much people didn’t know about the natural world they lived in. There is also a lot in Rhodes’ account about how Audubon managed to draw such lifelike dead birds (you had to shoot birds in order to study them) — he had a fairly complicated posing apparatus made up of wires, nails and boards, which he used to arrange his bird specimens as if they were still flying.

I still have about a hundred pages to go. I’ll let you know if it gets any better.

Special What I’m Listening To Update: For the last few weeks, I’ve been listening to Ethiopiques 4: Ethio Jazz and Musique Instrumentale, 1969-1974, which is fantastic. I get as much suck as I do gold out of my eMusic subscription, but the fact that they have (almost) all of the Ethiopiques series is a good reason to keep renewing.

[1] Because everyone has to have a favorite, you know.

There were too many people (and it was too hot and windy) down at the food co-op Earth Day celebration today, so I had to duck into the shoe store to catch my breath. Here is the tangible result of that decision. I’ve been wanting them for a while (and I didn’t pay quite that much money for them). According to the little brochure that came with the shoes, they were inspired by Nordic mythology. Exciting! I was just happy to finally find some green shoes.

In other news, I want the wind to stop blowing.

One of the things I like most about where I live in ABQ is my branch library. Other libraries are bigger, have more parking and a better selection of books, but none of them are as interesting, in my opinion, as the Ernie Pyle library.

(Click on photos to see a larger version.)

This library is located in the house of renowned World War II journalist Ernie Pyle. Although he and his wife were not natives to Albuquerque, they felt very attached to the city, and lived here a long time. Pyle was killed in 1945 while covering the Pacific war, and after his wife died later that same year, their house was donated to the city, and was turned into a library.

Every square inch of the house is used. Here are two shots of the interior. As you can see, the house’s closets do double duty as shelving. The closet in the second shot houses the library’s collection of books on tape. If you want to see the children’s books, you have to go through the kitchen. The periodicals are stored in the bathroom (where else, of course). The house’s front room has the computers, the CDs and DVDs, the self-checkout machine, and all the other accoutrements of the twenty-first-century public library. It’s very crowded in there.

The library also features a collection of Ernie Pyle memorabilila: pictures, awards, copies of his writings. The table in the foreground of the second picture above has a display of photos under glass. (Most of these items are kept in glass cases, and I didn’t get any good, glare-free photos of them.)

One thing that always strikes me when I go inside is how tiny this house seems in comparison to those built today. Of course, it seems smaller, given the amount of books, chairs, and other things inside, but it’s still quite a diminutive building. It’s always very sunny and pleasant inside, though: it must have been a nice place to live.

Outside is a nicely tended front lawn, a white picket fence, pleasant places to sit, and a memorial. This large white stone memorial, with an excerpt from one of Pyle’s most famous essays, The Death of Captain Waskow.